


Say My Name

by citsiurtlanu



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 1872
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Western, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21612022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citsiurtlanu/pseuds/citsiurtlanu
Summary: Steve reminds Tony that there's more to him than the war his weapons were used in.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 85
Collections: Lights on Park Ave





	Say My Name

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 3 of [Lights on Park Avenue](https://lightsonparkave.tumblr.com/), based on a quote by Ocean Vuong:
> 
> _When does a war end? When can I say your name and have it mean only your name and not what you left behind?_
> 
> Thanks as always to [needchocolatenow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/needchocolatenow/pseuds/needchocolatenow) for the quick beta!

"Because my Stark Repeating Rifle is down there in the hands of your Union army," Tony said, the answer to how he could be so sure that there would be no more fighting, and he didn't know then that it would be the last time he'd be able to speak his own name without feeling shame.

It was supposed to be a point of pride. The rifle he'd designed was so intimidating, so fearsome, that just seeing it was surely enough to force the South to surrender: the conflict would end, and no more blood would have to be shed. Perhaps, then, he could finally move back east. Miss Potts would hopefully come as well, and Tony could court her the way a lady like her deserved to be courted, with no war hanging over their heads.

None of that happened. Instead, Tony watched as the rifle was  _ used_, mowing down dozens upon dozens of unsuspecting soldiers. And all the while, the boys on what was supposed to be his side cheered and clapped each other on the back for a job well done even as the screams of the fallen rang in his ears.

Tony had a drink that day, and then he left Miss Potts and the army and everyone else and moved to some backwater, dead-end town to forget, and maybe to die.

*

"Are you Anthony Stark?"

"Tony," he corrected, squinting sideways at the unexpected company. But sunlight was streaming in through the doors of the saloon and he'd overindulged the night before, so details were a bit difficult to see. Still, he could make out enough to tell that this wasn't someone he knew. That was unusual. Timely didn't get a lot of new people.

"Hm," said the stranger. "Well, my name is Steve Rogers. I've been appointed sheriff of this town, and I wanted to meet everyone. I was told you were the blacksmith, and that you were more likely to be found here than the smithy."

That was a lot of information to take in, and Tony didn't think he was ready for it this early in the day. He rubbed his eyes and stared at his drink. "Musta done something bad to get a posting like that," he said at last. "Timely's no place for someone who wants to abide by the law. You met Marshal Stacy yet?"

"I haven't."

Tony giggled, even though the conversation wasn't funny. "And you won't," he said. "He was killed three months ago. That's what happens to law-enforcement types here, see."

The stranger - Rogers, he remembered - made another noncommittal noise, seemingly unbothered. "So maybe I'll need your help to make sure that doesn't happen to me."

For the first time, Tony lifted his gaze to really  _ look _ at the man, taking in the golden hair, the neatly-tied kerchief, the shining sheriff's badge. Oh, he was too good for this town; Tony could tell it already at a glance. It was a shame he'd been sent here. "Yeah?" he replied. "With what, a weapon?"

A shrug. "Maybe, yeah."

Tony clapped, earning a startled sound from Rogers, then slid off his seat as carefully as he could - which was to say, not very carefully. "Well, you've asked the wrong fella," he told him. "You've asked the wrong  _ town_. You should leave this place, Sheriff, if you know what's best for you."

"I don't - " Rogers began, but Tony had already tuned him out, shuffling carelessly toward the exit. He'd be back later, when the new sheriff was gone.

Because damn anyone who interrupted his attempts to forget, and especially damn anyone who thought that there was ever a chance of getting another weapon out of him ever again.

*

"I saw it in the saloon. 'Stark' emblazoned right on the stock of the rifle hanging up on the wall. It's one of yours, isn't it?"

Tony grit his teeth, setting down the horseshoe he was working on before he was tempted to do something worse with it, like throwing it at Rogers' irritating head. "You,  _ sir_, are testing my patience. If ignoring you doesn't make you leave, then fine, I'll say it: get out and let me work."

"No can do," Rogers said, stepping even closer than he already was. He set down some utensils on Tony's worktable, far enough away from everything else that Tony couldn't complain about them being placed somewhere inconvenient. "Work is what I'm here for. These are from Missus Parker. Peter fell ill and she asked me to take these to you for repairs in his stead."

The utensils shone dully in the light, and Tony regarded them suspiciously. "Alright," he said. "Your job is done, delivery boy.  _ Now _ you may get out and let me work."

Of course it wasn't going to be that simple, though. Instead of leaving, Rogers had the audacity to sit down on the edge of the worktable, looking down at Tony contemplatively. Tony considered standing up so that he'd have the height advantage, but it felt petty. Ultimately he just stayed where he was, waiting for Rogers to speak - because he sure as hell wasn't going to say anything more.

"I wanted to apologize," Rogers said at last. "I think we got off on the wrong foot." Before Tony could fire off a derisive retort, he added, much more quietly: "I was part of the war, too."

The words Tony was going to throw into his face died in his throat. No one talked about the war, not in Timely. People moved in, and then they were just  _ here_, and no one really cared much about where they came from. It was, Tony had thought, exactly what he'd wanted.

But hearing those words now, Tony suddenly felt something open within him: a yearning, a longing, a loneliness that was crying to be fulfilled. He'd never talked about the war. He wasn't sure he wanted to. But to have someone here in front of him, who might have known, maybe, the horrors Tony still had nightmares about -

No. No. He remembered, now, the smiling faces of the soldiers the day the massacre happened. They hadn't felt what Tony had. And the sheriff here - he was probably more of the same. Tony's only option, as it always was, was to try and forget it all.

"I'm going to go get a drink," he said, regretting that the bottle on his table was already empty.

"Please don't," Rogers replied, and even though he shouldn't have, Tony stilled.

Fine, he thought to himself. He'd give Rogers a chance. It was more than the Confederates had gotten at Glorieta Pass, and if he couldn't do this much, how was he better than the Union soldiers that fateful day? "Say your piece, then," he snapped before he could walk back on his decision.

Rogers nodded. "I've held one of your weapons before, in Virginia," he started, and that was almost enough for Tony to just stand up and go. But -  _ a chance_, his traitorous mind reminded him, and he settled for picking up the horseshoe again, if only to have something to occupy his hands with. "Well. More than held. I used it. They said the bullet went so fast, it could go through three people if the stars lined up right. And it was true. Every time I fired it, I thought - it was a lot of power, packed in one rifle. More power than a person should have. But I used it anyway, because it was war, and we didn't have a choice. And if it helped us end it, to end  _ slavery_, then it was worth it.

"Well, that rifle didn't last forever. Lost it and all our others when the Confederates set fire to our arsenal one night. We got new rifles eventually, but they weren't the same. They weren't Stark rifles. You weren't producing them anymore."

Tony could feel Rogers looking at him then, and after a moment, he forced himself to look up as well. "And?" he prompted, because now he wasn't sure where this was going - if Rogers was going to accuse him of being a traitor, or something worse -

"And I think maybe, you started thinkin' the same thing as me," Rogers continued very softly. "You stopped because it was too much. And you left, rather than stay and be complicit."

It was the closest he'd ever heard his feelings being verbalized. A multitude of emotions welled up in him - grief, shame,  _ relief _ \- and Tony didn't know what to do about it. He was suddenly afraid, and he didn't even know of what.

Probably, he thought, he was afraid of how well this stranger seemed to understand him already.

"I'm going to get a drink," he said again. This time he rose from his chair, setting the horseshoe down. Rogers watched him in silence, so after a beat Tony added: "You're invited."

"I'm not gonna drink," Rogers warned.

Tony waved a hand dismissively as he headed toward the door, looking back to see if Rogers was following. "Just…"  _ Be there_, he thought, but he couldn't make himself say the words out loud. "Just come," he said instead.

Rogers went with him.

*

"So Stark's an  _ inventor_," Rogers said, admiring the contraption Tony was showing him now. It was a gadget that could be worn around the wrist, hidden up the sleeve with a button that could push something out when needed. Tony wasn't sure what he'd have it hold yet. If he were inclined to cheat at cards, it would probably be a convenient ace, but he wasn't a gambling man.

He'd figure it out later. For now, he had a different problem - namely, that  _ look _ Rogers was giving him. It wasn't one he was used to seeing directed his way. How could it be? He was known for building weapons that brought about death. But here in this moment, Rogers looked like death was the last thing on his mind. He was smiling, his expression almost childlike with glee as he leaned closer to get a better look at the tiny screws holding it all together. It made something warm swell up in him, and Tony wasn't sure what to do with the feeling.

"I was half-afraid you did nothing but drink and work, considering that this is the first time in all these months you've shown me something like this," Rogers continued, completely oblivious to the nonsense running through Tony's head.

"No, that still sounds about right," Tony confessed. He waved his flask at Rogers. "What do you think I'm doing right now?"

Rogers' gaze slid toward the flask, then back at him. "Spending time with a friend, I'd hope," he replied.

"A friend?" Tony repeated, and the shock he could hear in his own voice was shameful. Quickly, he took another swig, even though he knew it wouldn't help him forget what he'd just said. He'd had too much experience by now in trying to forget.

At this, Rogers set the contraption down, and Tony silently cursed himself. He'd blown it. He hadn't even realized there was anything to blow up here - not until it was too late, it seemed - but he'd blown it. In the months that had passed since Rogers had first appeared in his smithy, they'd grown - closer. Rogers had approached him with dogged determination, tolerating the drinking and the self-pity and the occasional singing and just… spending time with him. He'd slept in Rogers' bed, for God's sake, when he was too inebriated to make it back to his own bed, as Rogers spent the night on the floor.

And now with the words out there, Tony was realizing very much that yes, they were friends, and that yes, it was something he wanted more than he ever knew, except now his stupid, shocked comment was going to endanger all of that.

He hung his head, ashamed, and Rogers' next words only cemented the feeling -

"What are we, if not friends?"

Tony looked back up again, because it was the least he could do to make it up to Rogers - and he was surprised to see not disappointment or anger, but… but something else. Something Tony wasn't sure he could identify - but looking at Rogers now, he wanted to. God, he wanted to.

"Something better than that," he said at last.

Rogers smiled. He reached for the hand clutching at the flask and gently removed it, then slowly and carefully intertwined their fingers, that  _ feeling _ Tony couldn't quite identify never leaving his eyes as he did.

*

"Why do you always call me Stark?" Tony asked in the darkness, basking in the warmth that was Steve's body beside him - the change was recent, but welcome, and Tony was grateful that Steve no longer felt like he had to sleep on the floor on those nights where he dragged Tony out of the bar and into a bed. Staring at the back of Steve's head now, Tony watched as the moonlight filtering in from the windows caught a few stray strands of hair and made them shine, and he wondered if it would be taking too many liberties if he reached forward to touch them. It probably was, he thought.

Steve turned around in the little bed, putting an end to that particular train of thought. This was a better view now, anyway. "It's your name, ain't it?" he replied.

Tony hesitated. "Yes," he said at last, because it was. But there was more to it than that, and finally he continued, "When people hear it, they think of - of slaughter. And death."

"That's not what I think of."

The response was so quick that Tony was taken aback. And though he knew he should just accept it for the good thing that it was - confused though it left him - he couldn't help but press further: "Well, that's what  _ I _ think of." It was his legacy, and it would never leave him no matter how hard he tried to forget, haunting him like a spectre he could not banish.

"Hm," Steve said, turning back around. "Someday I'll say your name, and you won't think of any of that stuff."

Tony missed seeing his face, but it was probably easier this way, not making eye contact during a conversation like this. "And what will I think of instead?" he prodded.

"Go to sleep, Stark."

Resigned, Tony let his eyes shut, thinking the conversation was over. But then Steve blindly reached back, finding one of Tony's legs and resting his hand there. Nothing else - no movement, no salaciousness, just… steadfastness and comfort. "But maybe," he added quietly, "you'll think of a moment like this one."

*

"'Stark Industries'," Natasha repeated as she gazed up at the side of the building. "There's a lot of baggage in that name. You really sure you want to go with that?"

Tony thought about Steve. Steve, who had seen him at his worst but still spent time with him anyway. Steve, who had found value in him as someone beyond a weapons manufacturer. Steve, who had shouted his name, spoken his name, whispered his name until he could no longer hear the echoes of the war that had shaped him.

Steve, who was now gone.

But he'd left one more message before Fisk had killed him, the one that had been spit out by his own fortune-telling contraption.

_ Remember what  _ Stark _ means to me_, it had read, and Tony clutched at the little piece of paper in his pocket right now, following Natasha's gaze at the bold letters spelling out his name.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I'm sure."


End file.
